Brad Reyes © 2004 All Rights Reserved
stormsucker, dear spot on my lung,
I haven’t worn a slip in years and
my balaclava’s unstrung.
A naked face on a city street:
People do not flee from me.
I wrestle the pinions of you in my sleep.
Dear straight-backed chair, dear huzzah
my high heels are in the dustbin:
A coup d’etat? coup de grace?
Our battle is still a mystery.
How can we declare a winner when we
have different ideas of victory?
Dear banshee under the stairs,
for wide-wale corduroy, for orange plaid,
for all your mismatched prayers
I never did learn the Jackie O
dear poached egg, tuna breath,
wheel spoke, open road.
Now it’s chinos and the Zone,
heavy eyeliner and underwire,
dear salumeria, dear provolone.
Every waking day is a transgression:
the ethereal don’t disturb a tailored line.
I love excess because it’s mine,
dear rattling pane, dear lack-a-day.
My spirit is unrisen, a tidbit of fish.
Oh why can’t I find the way,
Minotaur, to burrow through your heart
(our broken halos, our mended robes)
arms aching together, apart. Estrangement is the start.
Magdalena Alagna is a freelance writer and editor living and working in New York City. She recently earned an MFA from Hunter College.
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